Un
by PowerOfFail
Summary: While the plot doesn't crossover, the idea does. This is a collection of one-shots dealing with characters and growing up, there are 9 total. The fandoms included are Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and Pirates of the Caribbean.
1. Untrue

Being raised in a house that was half muggle, half wizard meant that Lee Jordan had many tales told to him. Muggles dreamt of magic, Wizards dreamt of pushing their magic to new heights. Yet for all their differences, one constant remained true, through and through. In every tale, valor was to be found. The name of the main character was always known in all the lands, he was proud and his friends stood ever faithful behind him, never to back down, even in the face of great danger. Darkness fell, but always did they remain true, these were the fairy tales that filled his childhood.

When wartime came, Lee expected it to be simple: choose good over evil, good will triumph, no grief to be suffered, no death to face, and if you did, you would escape. And, indeed, at first it was that simple. Fight for the Order. That was easy, that was what he chose to do, and he didn't really understand what other decision he could have made. Maybe he could have run away, but did the proud heroes of any of the stories turn tail and run? Never did they do that, and Lee always knew that when the time came, neither would he.

It wasn't valor that he fought for in the War, that's what he said, but maybe if he was honest with himself; it was an awfully temping reason to fight. As the War drew on and got worse and worse, with death and fear growing every day, Lee began to understand there was more to fighting than for recognition. He almost lost his friends on missions for the Order, and it was at these times that he learned that he fought for them as well as himself, to save those he cared for. With this realization, he fought harder, for this time he felt he had a more important reason to fight, to resist, to help in any way he could, even if it meant just speaking the truth or raising everyone's spirits, thus the creation of Potter watch.

The War ploughed on despite Lee's new resolution, though, and by the time the Final Battle arrived, he hadn't lost any friends and thought that maybe he could get through without death, that one part of the stories that was ever in the back of his mind would come true.

But it didn't. Almost it seemed that he lost two friends for one. He thought he handled his own grief remarkably well, he hid it and made sure that he was there for George when hard times came, not allowing his remaining friend to see him crumble, after all, Gryffindors were _supposed_ to be stubborn in all manners, and Lee stubbornly believed that George and everyone else needed him to remain strong, as someone to lean on when things got rough.

By the end of the war and the funeral of his best friend, one half of the duo that he was in some ways the third wheel of, Lee knew the fairytales from so long ago would never come true, it was what made them so fictional. He did not receive the valor that the heroes always got, neither did he get the girl, and he lost friends along the way. So though tragedy was suffered and the immediate recovery from War did not occur, he was a hero in his own way. Darkness fell and he remained true, even in times of fear. His friend needed him and he was there, just as a friend should be.

Happily ever after didn't come true, and it never would. The heroes so bold who faced their foes and didn't back down actually quivered in fear, or broke with the loss of a life. Their valor wasn't without pain, their happiness without sorrow. The stories lied, they were untrue…

Yet they were true. Lee aspired to be one of the heroes in the tales he'd long since heard from a young age, and he achieved it. He fought through fear, through pain and loss. Finally he understood as he stood by his friend in front of the grave, he understood that the heroes were such because they kept going. Lee decided that he was a hero, not unsung, but not renown. He had done heroic things, and though he didn't receive the valor he'd desired in the beginning, being able to stand there with his friend both giving and receiving support, living through the aftermath that was the true trial of character for one so set on the path of good, that yes, he had finished his own tale, if not in the way expected, and the heroes were real and true, even if the happy ending was not…

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A/N:** Yes. You can laugh. I know, I know, I know. It doesn't make sense. But! there are reasons for this...Okay, yea, I got nothin'. Well, anyway, this was written for my 1 yr anniversery on back in March, and two months later, I was looking back through my old fics and found it, and it brought about the idea for a series I'm gonna call the 'Un' series. It's about different characters and growing up, and it goes from the Hp fandom to the LOTR fandom, and there's one in the POTC fandom. So, nine total. Yeah, that's about it...  
Hp = 4 fics (Untrue, Unsaid, Unconcerned, Unsung)  
LOTR = 4 fics (Untainted, Unloved, Undecided, Undying)  
POTC = 1 fic (Unbidden)  
**Well, whatever. Disclaimer: I own not Lee Jordan or any of the Harry Potter awesomey goodness (or badness, as it were. *cough Voldemort and the Death Eaters cough*) They're all KINDA the property of JKR, and all. But you already knew that...**


	2. Untainted

The wind carried new whispers that he had never heard before. It pushed lazily by him, caressing the dead brown grass at his feet as he came forth before the Black Gate, just as his father had thousands of years before him, though now he was the only one to represent his race among the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.

Yet even as he stood, one Elf among many Men, his heart was turned not to the East where the battle was to be fought, but rather to the West, where the clear blue waters of the sea drowned the Sun each evening upon its setting.

It was a new feeling for him, and the Prince of Mirkwood found it disconcerting. With every beat of his heart, he felt the longing of the Lost Isle stirring, a desire he had never known before. And along with the awoken desire, Legolas felt aged.

Before that day when he sailed upon the water, before he heard the white gulls cry, he had still been young. Everything done with the Fellowship thus far had been a game, a spec of fun. He had competed with Aragorn and Boromir, defeating them easily a top Caradhras. Their next challenge had been just as simple, fighting the Orcs, mortal enemies to Elves, yet still so easily beat.

Indeed, although among the members of the Company he felt slightly older, having lived for years uncared for more than any of the others (save for Gandalf,) that didn't bother him. Despite that the Nine Walkers were traveling on what was a dreary mission, most likely to claim their lives, and this he knew, Legolas was still untainted by the sorrows of the Elven race, not plagued by fear and doubt.

Mirkwood, his home, was but a little part of the world, a vast world in which many things could happen. And though the years of his life were many, he was young and new to the earth where still there were many leaves and flowers that he had never seen before, trees he had never heard tale of, and was home to those whose names he had only ever heard in song.

He had always been isolated in Mirkwood, kept there by his father for reasons unknown to him. At first as he journeyed it seemed strange to him to leave behind his home in Mirkwood, the only place he had really ever known, but soon he began to enjoy the release from isolation. There were more challenges to face, more games to play, and more competitors who actually rivaled him.

Along the Fellowship's travels, Legolas couldn't understand his companions' weariness of the road they had to travel, but instead took joy in the obstacles before him. Even at Helm's Deep as he watched Men on either side of him fall to death's waiting hands, he still could only see the bright side of the fight, and only had one goal in mind: to beat Gimli.

But that was only until at the end of the battle, when though he had lost the game, he saw Gimli still standing when so many other lay dead and he had rejoiced, Legolas realized there was a little more to life than games, and that deep down he had been worried for his friend. He felt a bit older as he began to understand what put the shadow on the faces of his friends and foes and of his kin.

And so as he stood before the Gate, as it opened and the Eye turned his way, and with his heart turned West, it ceased becoming a game. There were horrors in the world, sorrows unavoidable, there was fear, and pain, and he knew it all. When he had set out from his home to reach Rivendell there had been no burden upon his shoulders, but now he felt the darker side of the world.

Legolas had seen things that no child should see, and stood now where no child should stand. The longing in his heart helped him to see the side of the world that for long on his journey he had ignored, and he felt old. Older than traveling with the children, so many years younger than he, could ever make him feel. He felt weary, as if the woods could no longer contain joy, for behind every shadow there lurked something far more wicked and damaging than he had ever known.

As he fought in the battle, it wasn't his title in a game that was at stake, but the freedom of his people, of Men, of Dwarves, and Hobbits, and so many more. He ceased to fight for fun and began fighting for his friends and his kin, for those he knew not, and with the hope that even if he died for this cause, there would still be something good in the world, even if he was no longer around to see it.

He was older, far older now, with more understanding of the sorrows of his race. He now understood the look that would sometimes pass over his father's face, or the whispers of the other Sindar in his realm; their whispers of the world far away, over the ocean, where they could escape what plagued them, night and day.

And there were now the voices, clear and calling to him, even as he fought, drowning out the desperate cries of the warriors and enemies around him. They tugged at his heart, pulling it away from the woods where fell things tread, to a land where no evil could roam, where he could be rid of his sorrows for ever, for now he was not so naive. No longer was he a child, but an elder who saw both light and dark, for no longer was he so untainted.

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**A/N:: **I love irony.  
**Disclaimer: I don't own Legolas or the Lord of the Rings, which is a good thing, or Middle Earth never would have been so amazing.**  
Alriiighty. I don't really have an explanation for this one, except that I think I messed up Lego. Looking back on LOTR, I was reading The Two Towers just before Helm's Deep, aaaand I think that Legolas...I don't know. I think I totally missed his character in this.  
Mmm. Well. Maybe not. I'm not sure, but! anyway, that's that.


	3. Unsaid

The air was thick with dust and smaller rock particles, blotting out the silver light of the slim moon and dim stars above, and he who had once been laughing found himself coughing, unable to finish his sentence.

Too distracted by his inability to breathe, he didn't notice the rock, but even if he had, it would have been too late. Contrary to popular belief in weeks later, he didn't die instantly.

A severe pain could be felt on the left side of his head, and his vision began to swim, but not with the black of approaching unconsciousness. Instead, before him, Fred saw memories of days long past, when no one had to worry that what they said to someone would be the last thing between them.

It was one of the first things he recalled, if anyone asked him to look into his earliest childhood memories. His earliest memories were from the War, he could remember his parents with anxious faces, looking distracted as they would read to him and his twin every night before finding his older brothers.

He remembered them always taking pains to comment how much they loved Fred and his brothers, of how much they loved each other, and he'd never understood. He had thought it was silly, ridiculous, he thought they should already know.

So Fred had never been big on expressing his emotions through words, but chose to show them through his actions and facial expressions, thinking that would be enough to indicate to people anything that could be stated.

When he was happy, the whole world laughed with him, when he was angry, the world fled from him. It was that simple, everyone knew how he felt; nothing was hidden, even if he never attempted to articulate his feelings. He was just one of those people; why waste words on emotions when they could be better used as jokes?

But as he thought and felt himself pulling away, he knew what was happening. He knew he was dying, and he was half alive and half dead, even if his body had become still. His soul still watched the dust whirling above, and he tried to hold on, tried to revive himself.

There was too much left unsaid between him and everyone he knew. Fred wanted to stay long enough to say good bye, but nothing more. He wasn't the type to tell people what they meant to him, he expected them to already know, but he felt that everyone should have a chance to say good bye.

Yet even as he thought that everyone should already know, he felt doubts that they could ever really understand.

Even though his body was quickly becoming cold, Fred could still feel the pressure of his elder brother's hands on his shoulders. The dust was still too thick to see, and some stones were still falling, the final pieces crashing to the ground. He could feel himself slipping away, leaving his body, faster, faster. He knew he wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye, not even to Percy, closest to him.

Focusing all his energy, his tried one last time to hold on to himself, to make himself move. Everyone had always commented on the twins' iron wills, and so the force of Fred's this time was enough to move his body, but just a bit.

He could do no more than put a smile on his face, a normal one, as if he'd been laughing. Too long had he left things unsaid and lived through actions and not words. He knew why adults commented on things that kids dared not waste their breath on, and so he smiled, hoping that it would be enough to make up for all that he had left unsaid.

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**A/N::** Well, Shire Baggins, I don't even know where in StarClan this came from, I mean, does it even make sense? You can totally laugh at it if you want, I most certainly am, and I _wrote_ it. Actuallllyyy, I think I'm going to redo this chapter and change characters but keep the concept.  
**Er, anyway: Disclaimer: DON'T OWN POTTER SERIES.**  
Thought for the Day: fanArt ideas rock until you realize you can't draw, then they taunt you.


	4. Unloved

Golden sunlight filtered into the room, so pure and magnificent that he almost fancied he could see sparkles amid the sunbeams. It was bitter irony that the sun should shine so brilliantly on a day so desperately dark, he reflected to himself.

It would be more fitting if the moon cast a silver glow amid a black, starless sky rather than have the sun come forth on such a dreadful day. The day that all was in the balance, that all was sure to fail, with only one hope – and a fool's hope at that…

Faramir sighed quietly to himself, confined to his room in the House of Healing so early in the morning. He preferred the dark, and he always had. The sun made him restless, and there were no mysteries; he felt that there was something more to night: that not all that lingered under the cover of the moon could be evil.

He always opposed the thought that evil was dark, and that dark was evil, knowing that they were not one in the same, just as he and his brother were not. Boromir had always liked the day more than the night. He felt that night was a time for rest, and that was all; but during the sunlit hours, that was when truth came foreword and all was well. It was a time in which nothing could hide or run, where everything was out in the open and fair.

Yet in their family, Faramir was not the only one who preferred the dark. Denethor had long lived in the dark. He was a wise man, and being intelligent, perceptive, and observant, he enjoyed the calm the night brought to the tiresome day. It was for this reason that his love was more for Boromir than Faramir, as Faramir so interpreted his father's gestures when he and his brother were young.

Denethor lived so long in the dark that before him Boromir was a candle, casting a golden glow on the black world of night. Most people preferred light to dark, and it seemed Denethor hungered for light, seemingly deprived of it, as he was openly generous and encouraging of Boromir, praising his skill and commenting on his worth, while pushing Faramir ever harder to achieve the same ends as his brother without compliment.

As a child, Faramir thought his father had not loved him, and would only accept him if he were just like Boromir. And so Faramir worked hard for his father's love, not knowing that he already possessed it.

Denethor had always cared; had always known that Faramir was just like him, for although he could wield a sword and serve as a warrior, it was the books and ancient lore he preferred to spend his time with, in the dusty, dark library. Denethor did not want to see his son walk the dark path that he had set for himself, and pushed him ever towards the light, toward his brother.

But that was not Faramir's destiny, and he could not easily follow in his brother's footsteps, for even though he tried, he could never please his father, or so it seemed to him, and it pushed him farther into the night. Denethor had long fooled him into thinking he was unloved, and as the brothers grew older Denethor began to trick even himself, as well.

Never would he love one more than the other, but Denethor had begun to delude himself to believing that Faramir could only succeed when he became his brother, and so when Boromir died, Denethor felt that light had been lost, the candle in his dark room had gone, and he was left only with black curtains that blocked out any light.

But Denethor realized the truth ere the end, though by then it had been too late, and so when he was dead, having gone up in the flame to which he had so desperately clung, Faramir was only left with empty thoughts and wonderings about how his father had truly felt about him.

Yet while looking upon his childhood memories as he lay in his warm bed, golden light from the sun all about him, Faramir realized something. He had known all along that children could not see things before them all the time, and only until it was too late did they see what they once had, and Faramir saw that he had always been loved by his father.

It had always been there, only masked, veiled so that a child could easily misinterpret it, as Faramir had long done. He had never been disliked, hated even, he had only fooled himself into thinking he had been, and it had taken him too long to see that. He had lost his father, and lost Denethor's love, but it was only taken by death, for he had always had it, he had never really been unloved – he just couldn't see it.

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***~A/N~* **Commas are an author's best friend.  
**In other news, I have a Disclaimer to announce, and it is that I don't own The Lord of the Rings or anything/anyone of which it consists.**  
This is the fourth for the series, second for the LOTR Uns. Errrrm, yep. That's all. *sniff* poor Faramir...


	5. Unbidden

The cool wind blew up from the sea, smelling of fish and tasting of salt, and into his face. It was not something that he would ever have thought to be subjected to so much that he became accustomed to the feeling; nor to see the sun setting upon the open blue water, or to watch it rise in a sky free from the black smoke of coal fires. Never did he ever believe that he would come to captain a ship alongside his father, ferrying the souls of the dead, be they pirate, navy man, or traveler.

He hadn't been on a ship since the day he had nearly drowned when he was eight, and instead stuck rigidly to land; content training as an apprentice blacksmith rather than follow what he believed was his father's craft and become a merchant.

Will stood now on the mast of the _Flying Dutchman_ and gazed out over the sea, thankful that the morning would not begin with finding drowned souls in the waters of the world. He had only been captain for a little while, just less than a year, and found it quite surprising how frequently ships were destroyed or overturned and people lost or killed, but still what he found most surprising was his new job relating to such events.

As he had grown up, Will had been instructed against the 'sins of piracy,' and had been taught that his father had been a humble merchant lost at sea, and that he had _never_ engaged in any act of piracy. Will, of course, never recognized the medallion he was given as belonging to a pirate.

To find out from the infamous Jack Sparrow that his own father, his own modest father, would ever have been aboard a pirate ship, had served a pirate as his captain, to plunder villages and steal precious belongings it was…it was blasphemous to even think such a thing! He had been so unable to accept it, to believe that the same _evil_ ran in his blood; and yet…it was true.

He simply could not allow himself to believe that he could become what he was taught to hate. Will wanted to be a good man, to lead an honorable life; he was blinded by the prejudice of stereotype, thinking that he couldn't be who he was meant to be, and still be a good person.

Even as time progressed and he was forced to revert to rather unorthodox methods to save Elizabeth, such as making a deal with a pirate, commandeering a ship, and finding a crew (all made of pirates,) among so many other of his actions, a little part of him long denied that he was slowly changing, becoming that which society so rejected, and that was what he listened too.

Stories of pirates, of sea-thieves, that were told to him as a child were never kind to the people given such labels. He was warned against the disgraced title, and reassured that he would never be allowed to go astray, and yet even as he resisted the truth of his blood so many years later, eventually he could no longer deny himself.

To say that he liked what he had done would be to lie, for Will was doing what he felt that he had to do at the time. He was a man with a strong sense of duty, and if it meant breaking a few rules here and there, it had to be done. For a long time, Will didn't realize that was the attitude a pirate harbored, and as he began to realize this, he understood that this was the pirate in his blood coming forth unbidden.

He didn't see it at first, but finally he knew as he fought Davy Jones, the metallic clash of their swords meeting lost in the roar of the sea and explosions of cannon-fire, as he found himself in the middle of pirate affairs, one of the main coordinators, he understood.

As a child he was taught the old saying, 'speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil.' He did just that, for even as he spoke as a pirate, and when he heard the dealings of pirates they were not the dealings of evil men, but of decent men in their chosen profession, albeit a slightly misled profession.

The one that he broke was that he saw evil. He saw evil whenever he came across a pirate on his adventure, looking at them as though they were beneath him, not realizing he was becoming a pirate himself. It was simply something he did not want to see, even though everyone told him what he was becoming.

Will pretended not to see the evil that he was becoming, he couldn't accept it, wouldn't believe what was in his blood, until finally he was forced to see. As the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, with his pirate of a father working aboard the ship with him, he was forced to face the reality that he had become the evil he so despised.

Or so he thought, for at that moment as he reflected that, the wind picked up and Will caught sight of the _Black Pearl_ just on the horizon, and recalled what Jack had told him, and there, standing on the mast of the _Dutchman_, Will realized that Jack had been right: that though he was a pirate, though it was in his blood, he was still a good man.

He couldn't pretend or run away from it any longer. Will could see clearly what a child in his position could not: that he was what he was meant to be, and a fine person still, despite what society whispered, and he was almost proud to have a pirate for a father, and to he himself be a pirate, because no longer was his pirate blood unwelcome, now he bid it to come forth stronger, so that he could complete his job well and prove that though a pirate, he was a good man.

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***~A/N~* **  
**Disclaimer? Well, I don't happen to own POTC!  
**Explanation? Look, I know, I know, this has already been done by like a thousand other ficcers, but sssh, I wanted to try my hand at this subject. I mean, do you know how many post-DH fics there are about Fred and George that go over the EXACT same event? So like, I said, I just wanted to try out something in the POTC fandom.  
Thought of the Day: I am a ninja for stealing gum from my brother...BWAHAHAHA. HA. Ha. ha...


	6. Unconcerned

**::A/N:: Disclaimer -- The tale of Potter mine it is not. **Yes. I did just do a fail immitation of Yoda. Shuddup, I was watchin' Star Wars.  
Thought of the Day: From now on...I'm going to include a "thought of the day" section in my author's notes. Always.  
Also, **you just lost The Game**.  
Ficcers Summery? Short-sightedness is not a good thing to have in the real world, Georgie, and sadly, knows this now, he does...

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Children's laughter filled his dreams, in his mind where the grass never browned and the sky was never cloudy. Where his home was as undimmed by war as the sun by rain, where his siblings were weary of his pranks, not attacks by the Death Eaters.

In his mind where summer and childhood never ended, where war and pain were the farthest thing from thought; in his mind, not only in his dreams, but always in his memories.

Memories of recklessness and no consequence, when he and his twin believed they were invincible, inseparable, indestructible. Never in their wildest dreams and flights of fancy when they invented their pranks or actually pulled them did the word 'consequence' come to either of their minds.

It was commonly known that George was more temperate than Fred, but that doesn't mean to say that he was entirely full of common sense. He was less than a step behind his brother if ever he was calmer or slower to react; quite normally he was just as reckless as his twin, right there beside him in every mess the two got themselves into.

That about them never seemed to change. Even at Hogwarts when punishments ran more severe in some ways than the ones their mother could ever imagine for them did they pause to think about the consequence of their actions. Even when Lee joined their duo and they became a trio any thoughts given the repercussions that would take place afterward were but a few stars in a sky of thousands.

But that was all before that holey night; the night that changed George.

When he had been offered the chance to be a spare Potter for the mission, he had jumped at it without hesitation, not pausing to think that it could mean the death of not only himself, but his twin, and everyone else involved in the mission – even Harry.

He wasn't scared or anxious as the decoys began to take off, himself included, because he chose to childishly disbelieve that anything could actually happen to any of them; he did not take pains to call to mind every possibility involving death or injuries of the ones around him, so he was perfectly calm, almost daring to laugh while he hexed Death Eaters.

But when he woke up later that night, lying in the sofa, he could barely think of a joke to ease the worried look on his twin's face, a look that he did not like at all. It was not because of the pain in the side of his head that he could hardly pull his thoughts together, but the pain pushed upon him the reality of what the wound meant, of what the night meant.

While the rest of the house was quiet once everyone had gone to sleep, George was still awake. Thinking over his actions, looking at the consequences, and he became concerned. Reality pressed heavily against him, reminding him of what war really was, of what could happen if one was reckless and bold, or even if one was cautious and careful.

After that night George was more careful, thinking before taking a step, even if it meant that Fred was steps ahead of him. As the war drew on and his responsibilities as an Order member laid more heavily in his mind, George became more worried, trying to forget how to think of the consequences, but always remembering. He realized why he had never given thought to his actions, and knew it was because when he did, and he realized the end results, he became unsure if he would be able to handle them when they came crashing down around him.

As he thought and as he realized more, and more, he came to understand why the older members of the Order were fearful even when things seemed to be going the right way, and he didn't want to understand. George wanted it to be simple again, he wanted to be unconcerned with the future, but he could never forget; the hole in his head would always remind him.


	7. Undecided

The reflection in the mirror both revealed and hid his mixed blood. He was youthful, his ears pointed, his cheekbones particularly distinguishable as with most Elves, but he also looked more muscular and had a shorter build, common traits among Men.

He ran a hand, slender fingers with a wider palm, down his smooth, pale face. His eyes, dark but nondescript, were troubled and confused. His hair, as dark as his eyes, fell past his shoulders, just barely, and belonged to both halves of his heritage.

Elros was a Man and an Elf, both in looks and temperament. The world before him grew slowly, just as he did. He was for ever young, but at the same time he felt aged. The mirror could not show all of the conflict he now faced, given the choice between Ilúvatar's children.

As a child, he had always ignored someone when he heard whispers of him and his brother being labeled as 'Half-Elven.' He had never given thought to it, it seemed unimportant to his play. Maglor had never made comment or complaint of their mixed heritage, but taught them in the ways of Elves.

Neither he nor Elrond had given thought to having to choose between Elves and Men, but they had simply thought it made them different, that it was something to enjoy. Their friends would look at them in reserved awe, the way Men would gaze in wonder at the heavens and the dancing silver lights that were the dimmed radience of dying stars, and it was just something of which to bask in the glory.

Choices had always seemed so unimportant, the most dire he had ever had to make was which game he and Elrond would play that day, or which song he would ask Maglor to teach him, but now he faced a more difficult decision.

The Valar offered him death or life, and he had to choose. He was unsure of what to choose, for he was old among Men and so young among Elves, and his decision was blurred. He believed that if he chose to become a Man, his life would be over so soon, that death would come quickly; but he also worried that as an Elf that death would never come, or not quickly enough.

Instinctively he wanted to go to his brother to ask him for advice, but Elrond faced the same choice, and they had sworn not to reveal their decision to each other until they stood before the Valar and announced their fate to the world. They did not want to attempt to change each other's minds, but allow each to act a free agent on his own wishes without his brother's influence. And although Elros knew what they had promised, he also knew what Elrond's choice would be.

Yet still Elros wanted to turn to his brother, but knew he could not do that, and so looked for another way, and had found none. He had wanted to go to Glorfindel and ask him, or perhaps Gil-Galad, but no one before him seemed a wise place to seek an answer. He knew they would tell him to take the path of an Elf, and Elros knew that, though unspoken, Elrond expected him to take that road.

Though Elrond took that road, something held Elros back, for he was curious and brave. So still he stood in front of the mirror, reflecting, always reflecting. He could be found many days there, standing before the mirror, finding the Elf in him and the Man, and wondering who he should be.

_Children do not face these decisions_, _and am I not a child? _Elros would think to himself over and over. But ever would a little voice whisper in the back of his mind that for a Man he was an adult, even if for an Elf he still had seen so little that Elves should see.

Never before had he had to make such a difficult choice, one that tore away at him, leaving him wondering. Quite normally he and Elrond chose together what they were to play or sing, of how to spend their day; seldom did he have to choose for himself.

Yet still when he chose, none of his choices had ever left such a broken or cheerful on his brother's face as this one would, and none of them left him with inner turmoil even after they were made, but children don't make those kinds of decisions.

They grow, and they learn. The decisions become harder as they grow older as they begin to see more depth, when they see many possible routes and the decision has more choices. The decisions become more complex as they are full grown and see every possible angle. Those who are wiser see every result and consequence, the shades of grey, while the inexperienced children see no consequence, or perhaps only a few results, only the black and white of the world.

Elros remained undecided for as long as he could, having realized these truths, attempting to push them away, but they would always come back, just as he would always return to the mirror. Finally, though, in the end he chose what he thought in his heart would be best; and for his choice half of him wept despairingly at his fate, the other half cheered in triumph, but none of him was relieved that he was no longer undecided.

* * *

**::A/N:: Disclaimer -- Elros doesn't belong to me, neither does LOTR.**  
Also, just so you know, there is canon evidence that Elves have pointed ears in Tolkien's world. I know it never says in The Hobbit, the Silmarillion, OR the Lord of the Rings, but in the fifth book of the History of Middle Earth series, it does, in fact, state that Elves have pointy ears.  
Thought of the Day: It is a requirement to have lovely cheekbones to be an Elf.


	8. Undying

An eerie scratching sound filled one of the abnormally empty hallways of Rivendell one late afternoon as the sun began to set early. The source of the dreadful sound was a young boy walking down the hall with his shoulder slumped, sword dragging on the ground.

As he plodded down the hall, Aragorn heaved a sigh dejectedly. His head was bowed and he made an effort not to look at anything but the brown of the floor that he walked on; he even ignored Glorfindel, who had paused to ask him what was wrong, and normally he responded enthusiastically to anything Glorfindel said.

Finally Aragorn came to the end of the hall and continued straight, aiming for a spot hidden among the many high branches with green leaves and a variety of different coloured flowers that the trees surrounding Imladris provided.

Aragorn knew there was a small bench there, placed especially by him in an attempt to establish a haven to which he could escape, to leave behind the Elves around him and think.

He had not been there in a long time, not for a few years, at least. He brushed aside the few leaves that had fallen upon the bench, and dropped his sword to the ground. The heavy _clang_ of the metal hitting earth was dully muted by the trees.

After taking a seat on the bench, Aragorn pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, pondering about the differences between Elves and Men. Closing his eyes slightly, he thought a moment before asking the trees aloud, 'Do your leaves never fall? Do your flowers never die?'

'Of course they do, Estel, all living things must perish.' Elrond said, pushing the branches aside to enter the troubled boy's haven, knowing he would find him there.

'Not all living things; Elves do not perish.' Aragorn replied almost bitterly. For a moment, Elrond was at a loss of what to say. He noticed a bruise forming on Aragorn's face, and the way he was holding one of his arms awkwardly as if it pained him.

Finally he decided to just sit beside Aragorn on the bench. Elrond reached down and picked up the fallen sword, then asked, 'Where did you get that beautifully blossoming bruise, Estel?'

'Elrohir,' was all that Aragorn said.

'Ah, battle practice, I see.' Elrond commented. He let the silence extend between him and Aragorn, knowing the boy would eventually confide in him. After a few moments, his patience was rewarded and Aragorn said quietly, 'Lord Elrond, why did Ilúvatar make Men so weak? Why are Elves superior to us in every way?'

'Aragorn, we are not in all ways superior.' Elrond answered sadly. He turned to look at Aragorn, who was gazing up at him with an expression of hopelessness. Elrond knew that raising Arathorn's son in an Elven home would be hard on the boy, a Man always being compared to the Elves surrounding him, but nothing else could have been done.

Aragorn continued to stare at the Elf Lord as he remained quiet, attempting to find words to explain how the Elves, who were so much stronger, more beautiful, more graceful, and cleverer, could possibly be inferior to Men.

'It cannot be explained,' Elrond finally said, 'how Elves are inferior to Men.'

'It is because you do not know, or because you are not at all flawed.' Aragorn spat, turning away from Elrond.

'Do you forget your history? All the blood spilled by the Elves over the First Age, was none of that caused by mistaken oaths and misguided hearts? Was it not because of Elves all that occurred?' Elrond asked.

'That is not what I meant. If once an Elf goes astray, for ever he has to fix it. If once a Man goes astray, death is the only release from evil.' Aragorn replied.

Elrond closed his eyes, willing himself to be patient with the boy. It all came back to the subject of mortality v. immortality. Men could work to strengthen their muscles to compete with the power of the Elves, but still they were not as strong, but that was not their worst grievance toward the Elves.

'You think that to live for ever will grant one perfection?' Elrond nearly whispered. When Aragorn did not reply, he continued, 'It is not a gift, living for ever. Hand it to a Man, and he will grow weary of it swiftly.'

Aragorn, still taken by the fanciful notion that living for ever would cure anything that ailed him, suddenly burst out, 'You get to see the flowers bloom anew every year if ever they fall in your lands. You see the green grass grow higher than any Man may witness. You never must watch your friends or family become plagued by sickness or old age. You never must watch them die.'

'But also we see the flowers that never whither and fade vanish from the world. We see the leaves that never change colour fall from the trees, and watch the green grasses turn brown and never grow back. And when you die, do you think that I will not mourn?' Elrond prompted gently. He got off the bench, and kneeled on the ground before Aragorn so that he could look the boy eye-to-eye. He held up the sword, tip pointed skyward, and said, 'To live for ever is to wield a double-edged sword, Estel.'

Still Aragorn glared at the Elf Lord disbelievingly. He refused to take his sword, knowing that the next time he used it against the twins in battle practice that he would only lose, no matter how many times he resolved to do better.

Elrond stood then and looked thru the tree branches, his gaze resting on the trees on the grassy field on the far side of Imladris; close enough for Men's weaker eyes to see.

'Come stand beside me, and gaze thru the branches and tell me what you see.' Elrond commanded. Aragorn obliged, his manners still remembered, even though he was resentful toward the Lord of Rivendell.

'I see…a field; a very green field, very lush.' Aragorn muttered.

'Do you think that it is greener there than the grass where we stand now?' Elrond asked.

'…No, I do not. The green is the same.' Aragorn answered truthfully, sounding confused.

'The grass is not always greener on the other side.' Elrond said calmly. He turned and held the sword out to Aragorn, who did not take it just yet. Instead the child looked up at the Elf Lord, wondering at his wisdom.

Elrond took the boy's hands and placed the sword's hilt in them and said, 'A Man may still beat an Elf when all the odds are against him. It is the way of the world. Even the weakest may find the strength to defeat the strongest. There is always hope.'

Aragorn closed his fists tightly around the hilt, taking comfort from the strong metal, but he did not take his eyes off of Elrond. His gaze was still questioning, and Elrond understood his confusion despite all that he had explained.

He and his brother had once faced the same turmoil when offered the ability to choose their destinies. Elros had chosen to become mortal, and Elrond searched now for a trace of his brother's face in the young boy's, knowing of their distant kinship. It was a stretch, but he hoped to see a similar feature, possibly an eye colour, or a curl in the hair.

Yet it was not in the physical features that Elrond saw his brother, but in the courage and hope that shone thru the confusion in Aragorn's eyes. Elrond nodded and said, 'Perhaps you are now ready to challenge Elrohir and Elladan again.'

Aragorn smiled and exclaimed, 'I am ready, and this time I shall win!' before running off. As he sprinted the down the hall, he ignored the painful bruises pulsing on his arms and legs, and thought hard about how he was going to beat the twins.

However, he paused a moment before he reached the opposite end of the hallway, and turned to look out the high, mirror-less window. He looked out in all directions; taking note that every where he looked the grass was green all over, from one field to another.

Aragorn nodded happily, understanding the metaphor. Men were not always weaker than Elves, and their undying wish was just another part of learning that the grass was most certainly not always greener on the other side.

* * *

**::A/N:: Disclaimer? Why yes: The Lord of the Rings most certainly does _not_ belong to me!**

Mmmm, what to say about this, what to say? I guess I could explain Elrond's whole deal with leaves falling. You know Evergreens that NVR SHED? Well, Aragorn is making the point that in his lifetime, he'll never see those leaves fall, because they are *gasp* undying. Elrond, however, is saying that because he lives forever, when that tree dies or when those pines/leaves eventually do fall for whatever reason, he'll be around to see it. Y'know? And the flowers that never wither, he'll see them eventually destroyed/watch them fade and stop blooming and become extinct.

Yes plants can become extinct. They're living things, mmkay? Mmkay. That is your science lesson for the day.

Thought of the Day: I am really, really sleepy.


	9. Unsung

There wasn't a memorial, and it wasn't because it was too hot for a typical May second in the United Kingdom as the sun beat down upon the earth, depriving it of the dew it so desperately needed between the bouts of rain. No, it was because the while the Wizarding world recognized the War, it was with a clip or a few articles in the _Daily Prophet_ or a station on the radio; not large memorial services, just private ones with friends and family.

As such, classes were in session in the hot noon, just as they were every May second and any other day of the school year, and because of the heat the grounds were deserted, for the outdoor classes had retreated into the shadowed indoors. Yet still one boy stood out there in the heat, gazing at an old wall, cracked by war and weather: an ancient set of stones that had seen so much in their long history.

The blinding sun caused glimmering letters, etched into the stone not long ago, to stand out. They were gold in contrast to the muddy brown of the rock so that someone standing before the wall could read them, and would only appear if the person desired to see the names.

They were the names of the fallen, of those who had died in the War against Voldemort, each written by a different person, each set in a different handwriting. The boy recognized many of the names, particularly their surnames, and it was they that he ignored as he traced the letters with this small fingers.

He reached as high as he could, for the death toll was many, so he could not reach the top, and still he stretched and began to trace. When he came to a name that he knew, he would skip it, such as that of Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, or even his own uncle.

He wanted to honor the fallen, the good and the bad. He wanted to remember those who were never recognized, whose names never saw the fame that death had brought so many others. They were the unsung heroes and villains of the war, and their stories untold, their lives and deaths ignored, their triumphs and sorrows forgotten, and it was they the young boy wanted to know.

Quietly the boy hummed a slow tune, a sad one he had heard his father sing with his uncles one May second past, and for some reason it had stuck in his head. By now his arm had begun to feel burned as the sun shone relentlessly upon him, but he continued to trace. He hadn't been to the wall in a while, not since the last time his eldest sister had gotten into trouble.

After a while his second eldest sister came out to look for him at their parents bidding. She knew she would find him at the wall, and there he was, sitting contentedly as if he didn't notice the unusual heat from which even the insects hid. With a small sigh she took a seat next to him, and stared at the wall, gazing at the names.

She heard her brother humming and recognized the song, and soon she joined him, a calm understanding between them, harmony woven together between their voices. They sat together, even when the bell rang, signaling the end of class and students rushed out to the grounds, or inside from the green houses. They paid the students no mind, and the students ignored them.

The two fell silent and waited for their parents. When they finally emerged they took the brother and sister home, and when together they replied about what they were doing when asked about it, their parents couldn't have been prouder. They were told it was a very grown up thing to understand, that many roles in the war were played, and if even one of them had not been filled, the war could have been drastically changed.

The boy and the girl shrugged off the compliment, not yet wanting to feel grown up, and with a whisper of irony they didn't know, proudly reported to their parents of words at the bottom of the wall that they had never noticed before. They were the words that went with the tune they had been humming…

_And Odo the hero, they bore him back home _

_To the place that he'd known as a lad,_

_They laid him to rest with his hat inside out_

_And his wand snapped in two, which was sad._

And as they sang it for their parents, the boy and the girl realized that every hero and every villain has their tale, as long as there are ears willing to hear it; and they felt a little sad as they always did for understanding that some went unsung, and it made them feel a little bit older, to know this, and to see that sometimes growing up wasn't as great as they wanted to believe, that there were unforeseen twists that proved undesirable, that these were unfortunate complications amid the joy, and that all came hand in hand: the sorrow and the happiness, the sung and unsung, and the good and the bad; it was all just a part of growing up.

* * *

Thought of the Day: I'm out of ideas today.  
**A/N:: Guess what. I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER.  
**So, I'm not entirely sure why I included "Odo the Hero" in this fic, but...mmm. I still have no idea.  
As for who the kids are, I always imagined them as Bill's kids, Louis and Dominique, but you can interpret it any way you'd like.  
Also, the reason why there isn't a HUGE FESTIVAL on May 2nd in this is because I think that while the Wizarding World would recognize the horrors and the sorrow and death that occured because of the war, and their triumph over Voldemort, I don't think it'd be a big, big deal so many years after it occured. Like, they'd observe it, but they wouldn't celebrate it. It'd just kinda be like, "would ya look at that, it's been nearly 10 years since we managed to off that evil snake!" or something.  
See what I'm saying?  
Well, that's it for the Un series. Phew, and glad am I. Hope you liked it. Feedback is always appriciated. Sort of like chocolate...


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